


Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?

by catherynthegreat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Fixer-Upper, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Illness, PTSD, Psychology, Romance, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1503503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherynthegreat/pseuds/catherynthegreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post- Winter Soldier: Natasha brings Bucky in, and with the help of a few trusted friends and an excellent psychiatrist, Bucky begins to re-learn what it means to be himself. Steve, meanwhile, comes to grip with his own depression. They'll be together when they're ready. [COMPLETE]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

4 April 2014: Day 0

The man without a name checks for breath and, finding none, proceeds to press his lips to the man from the water to force air into his lungs. Something about this is familiar, but that’s not of import- he must assure that the man before him is breathing, else his dive into the murky depths of the river would be for naught. He compresses the man’s chest, once, twice, waits for a beat, then- with a sudden spurt of water, the man is coughing, choking, breathing. The nameless man knows his job is complete and leaves the man there, the gentle waves of the river lapping at the bottoms of his feet, and walks away. He has a mission report to give- the man in the river is alive, his assignment is successful, he must submit himself to their tests and interrogations.

 

About 50 feet from the riverbank, he pauses. Something is stirring in his memory- information about a target to be dispatched by any means necessary within 7 hours of assignment. The fact that the man without a name cannot recall all the details is a grave error on the part of his handlers, he thinks- something must have been off with his briefing, one of the neuro signals not strong enough. He will inform them, and receive new instructions, and carry out his orders as he has always done.

 

His handlers are not at the meeting place, so he continues to the location of the current Red Room.

 

It’s empty, machine parts sparking in pieces on the floor, and the man without a name begins to understand that the entire operation is compromised. There are voices pushing through the carefully constructed compartments in his mind, a name, two names, a pair of blue eyes- and then the walls are crumbling down around him, he feels as though there are cracks in his skull through which sunlight is streaming, and he collapses in agony against the wall of the destroyed Red Room as his programming unravels.

 

10 April 2014: Day 6

Steve takes one last look around the apartment he had been living in up until this morning. He knows it’s right to move on- with SHIELD dismantled, he’s decided to finally accept Tony’s offer to move into the recently-dubbed Avengers Tower in New York City. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s leaving something behind, and unbidden thoughts of Bu- _him_ , finding the abandoned apartment and feeling once again (if it was possible for him to feel? Steve had no idea at this point) that loss of hope when Steve wasn’t there to rescue him.

 

Sam’s waiting outside with the U-Haul, so Steve doesn’t waste any more time pondering. He rips a page out of his notebook and neatly writes the address of Avengers Tower, then sticks it to the fridge with a spare magnet. It’s all he can do at this stage in the game. He locks the door behind him, sticks the key under the mat.

 

12 April 2014: Day 8

The man without a name has been wandering on the outskirts of DC, sleeping on park benches, for the past eight days. He supposes he should be thankful that this was summer time, because his interrupted assignment hadn’t prepared him for winter. He has not needed to eat; rarely does when he’s awake, unless he’s training for the next mission, which is good, because in this world, coming by food discreetly was not an easy task to accomplish. The Red Room has been destroyed, and his past with it, so wandering is all he can do.

 

Eight days, with not a single IV hooked to his arm. Eight days without a debrief, a report. Eight days without a command. His mind, before this, had been cleanly compartmentalised- his orders, his targets, the weapons he’d be given, the disguises. Every time returning upon completion of an assignment to either receive the next round of instructions, the next 36-hour language drill, or the next wipe. Now, though, his mind is slowly losing its focus, becoming mixed and confused. He had found himself staring into space for nearly the whole afternoon yesterday, hearing voices in his head that didn’t belong to his new commander. Just one voice, really, one the rational side of his brain (normally the only functioning part of his consciousness) told him must be just more propaganda, but that the emotional side, slowly awakening, reminded him was belonging to his past.

 

_‘We shouldn’t be doing this, Buck. We’ll get caught-‘_

_‘Shut your damn trap. We have five minutes before the watch shifts and I’ll be damned if I can’t get my super soldier off that quickly, what with his super-metabolism and his super-sex drive and his super-cock-‘_

_Steve made to smack Bucky’s face, playfully, as they always had when the kid was nothing but a sack of bones, but Bucky was too fast, grabbed the Captain’s wrist with one hand, his cock in his other, and crushed his mouth to Steve’s. He knew they didn’t have much time, but he also knew from recent experience that it wouldn’t take much, not after the amount of time he’d spent teasing the Captain and distracting him from his sentry duties._

_A few rough strokes, a gasp, and Steve was coming, shaking in Bucky’s arms as Bucky supported his full, massive weight, not even caring about the strain. He was painfully hard within his own pants, wanted desperately to push Steve against the nearest tree and fuck him until neither knew the other’s name, but in the distance he could hear approaching footsteps, twigs snapping, whispers._

_Steve untangled himself from Bucky’s grip and zipped up his trousers. None too soon, as well, because at that moment Dugan and Morita mounted the grassy knoll upon which they were stationed. Bucky hastily wiped his palm below the grass stain on his pants, thanking God that daybreak hadn’t quite reached its full capacity and that the shadows of the trees would be enough to hide any odd spots that seeped through the thickened fabric of Steve’s uniform. Dugan and Morita were hungover, anyway, back from a night off duty and looking hardly better than Steve and Bucky themselves, and therefore very unlikely to notice anything suspicious. The two teams exchanged formalities, then Bucky and Steve, together, tramped down the hill, exchanging only the occasional smirk as they headed back to camp._

The memories played out in his mind as vividly as watching a movie. They came upon him unexpectedly, startling him from his aimless wanderings along the riverbank. He’d find himself suddenly two or three miles from where he last registered walking with no indication in his muscles of the slightest strain or fatigue, or awakening under a tree at completely random intervals with no knowledge of ever falling asleep. To his normally well-ordered mind, this was frustrating, but as the days wore on he began to reconcile the fact that these memories were his... the man from the river, his mission (failed? succeeded?) had been telling the truth.

 

So he continued walking, and found himself on this, the eighth day since the failed mission, gaining entrance into the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. It is his first truly conscious decision for days- the building is welcoming, with crowds of excited tourists streaming in and out, and he wants to see something familiar and technical. Wearing clothes he’d swiped from a clothesline the previous day, he walks in with a sense of purpose.

 

The interior is breathtaking, but what draws his attention is not the fantastical displays of rockets and airplane technology, but the large banners hanging from the ceiling and draping into the floor below advertising the Captain America exhibit. The shield, the name, and the images of the man from the river are familiar to him not just in the abstract way that any mission details were, but in that newly intimate manner that he is coming to associate with his returning memories. He follows the directions of the signs down the stairs to the exhibit, and came face to face with himself.

 

Later

He has a new mission, now: become James Buchanan Barnes. It’s the first thought that’s stuck with him for longer than two or so hours, and he’s holding onto it. It’s also the first conscious action he’s chosen for as long as he can remember, judging by the fragments of memory he’s been able to catalogue and store from the last several decades. He’d found the address through a public directory, nice and simple (and he doesn’t yet have the capacity to question just how simple). He likes this feeling of choosing a path forward, he thinks, as he scales the fire escape attached to the brownstone.

 

The lights are off in the third-storey apartment, as he expected considering the time of night. He’s trying to avoid the swell of memories of the last time he was here from bursting through the carefully constructed dam in his head. _A target- a shot from the next rooftop, clean through the window- being pursued across several blocks of rooftops, terraces, and parapets- catching and returning the flying shield-_ he grits his teeth, spits out the name of his mission, ‘James Buchanan Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes’ over and over as he works to stay in the here and now. After a few minutes of deep breathing, he opens his eyes again and pulls out a knife, sliding it between the bottom of the window and its sill and twisting it slightly so the window cracks open. He puts the fingertips of his metal hand in the small gap before drawing the knife out and lifts. The window opens with greater ease than expected and he carefully, carefully slides into the apartment, landing softly enough that only the barest creak comes from the floorboards.

 

As his eyes adjust, he realises that the cautious movements are not necessary- the apartment is completely empty, save for the odd dust bunny hiding in the corner.  As he walks through the rooms, he takes in all he can, but there isn’t much; just a barely-there layer of dust on every horizontal surface, indicating abandonment of less than 72 hours. When he arrives in the kitchen, then, his attention is immediately drawn to the one thing that’s out of place: a note stuck to the fridge, bearing an unfamiliar address and a phone number. Again, he doesn’t question its convenience, just pulls it off and stuffs it into the pocket of his stolen pants. He’s out of the building and in the phone booth at the corner in less than two minutes.

 

He’s acting pretty much on autopilot as he shoves quarters into the payphone. There’s no doubt or hesitation that dialling the number on the note is the correct course of action.

 

The voice that answers on the second ring speaks to him in Russian, although he doesn’t consciously recognise the change in language. Subconsciously, however, the gears in his head are whirring back into their primal state, ready to receive instructions without question.

 

‘ _1328 Coney Island Avenue, Apartment 3C, Brooklyn, New York. There is a safe house where you will receive your next assignment. An Amtrack ticket under the name Johnathan Stan has been reserved for the 5:25 AM train to Penn Station, leaving from Union, on 13 April. You will find a wallet containing your identity and $500 in cash beneath the dumpster to your left. An agent will meet you in New York. Leave your weapons in the vacant apartment and they will be collected.’_

It’s as if he is a marionette and the puppet strings have been re-attached. He hangs up the phone and climbs back up to the abandoned apartment to deposit his knives. He will arrive at the train station, new wallet in hand, in two hours, and proceed from there as directed.

From Sharon Carter’s apartment, Natasha drops the phone she had been holding and watches the man climb down the fire escape for the second time. She has a chopper to New York to catch.


	2. Chapter 2

13 April 2014: Day 9

**6:45 AM**

 

_‘I’m invisible’, Bucky said, his flirtatious smirk disappearing from his face as Peggy left the bar. ‘I’m turning into you. It’s like a horrible dream.’_

_Steve smiled, a blush tingeing his cheeks. ‘Don’t take it so hard. Maybe she’s got a friend!’ he joked, patting Bucky’s shoulder. His bravado was fairly false, though, as he turned back to the bar. Getting Peggy’s attention had seemed so important to him just days ago, but now, with his best friend safe beside him in the same kind of haunt they had frequented together in Brooklyn, her hints about dancing with him didn’t even rank in the top 10 of the most important things on his mind._

_Bucky shrugged good-naturedly. ‘I wasn’t kidding about the costume, although I gotta say…. man, Steve, do you ever clean up nicely in dress uniform. No wonder you’re getting the dames’ attention now.’ There was a mildly suggestive tone to his voice, one Steve didn’t know how much he’d missed, and Steve felt a slight shiver move up his spine. ‘Do you wanna get outta here?’ continued Bucky, and Steve nodded._

_Less than twenty minutes later, they had stumbled, laughing, into Steve’s captain’s quarters. The door to his room had barely closed before Bucky pushed Steve roughly against the wall and kissed him. The kissing part was not new- they had fumbled together for months before Bucky had left for Europe- but Bucky having to tilt his head upwards to capture Steve’s lips in his own sure was._

_‘I want… to see you’ Bucky gasped, pulling at Steve’s tie. Steve nodded as Bucky traced his lips along Steve’s jaw and started working at the buttons on his dress uniform in earnest. Before long, the blazer and tie were lying in a puddle on the floor, followed closely by Steve’s shirt and undershirt. Steve’s hands weren’t idle either, quickly pulling Bucky’s loose-fitting dress shirt off his shoulders and throwing it with force across the room. Steve ran his hands over Bucky’s back, loving the feeling of Bucky’s muscles tensing beneath his grip but also noting sadly the new scars above his hips and the way his ribs were more prominent._

_Without much more preamble, Bucky dropped to his knees and began undoing Steve’s belt buckle. Steve braced himself against the wall, shuddering, as Bucky carefully unzipped his trousers and pulled his briefs down his legs, freeing his aching erection. ‘That’s definitely different,’ said Bucky, eyeing Steve’s engorged cock appreciatively._

_‘Are you going to keep looking, Sergeant, or are you going to actually touch?’_

_‘Are you giving me orders, Captain?’ replied Bucky with a wicked grin, but he didn’t wait for Steve to answer before wrapping his lips around Steve’s cock and hollowing his cheeks into a gentle suck._

It’s a memory, a fantasy, and a dream that’s played again and again in Steve’s mind since he was awakened two years ago, and as he blinks groggily in the early morning light, he thinks that it is certainly tinged with a great deal more bitterness than sweetness, now that he knows. The dream would normally have continued on, as that particular night was the first night he and Bucky had ever really had sex, but at the moment, Steve is thankful that it’s been interrupted by his alarm. He grimaces as he sits up, trying desperately to ignore his hard-on. All he wants to do to relieve tension at the moment is run, and it’s important to get out now because yesterday was a scorcher for April- 77o and sunny- and today looks like it’s going to be no different.

 

Steve climbs out of his bed, still somewhat disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. It’s only his second time waking up in Avengers Tower and he’s not used to the muggy Manhattan skyline outside his floor-to-ceiling windows- or having to tell JARVIS to tint them so he can change into his workout gear.  As he pulls on his compression shorts, he notes thankfully that everything below his waist is back to its normal proportions. He furtively hopes that Stark doesn’t record every moment of every day on the security system.

 

A few minutes later, Steve steps out of Avengers Tower and into the sun.

 

 

**8:45 AM**

The man without a name watches the platform as his train slowly pulls into Penn Station. He’s not sure who he’s looking for, but he’s also not concerned. His handler will reveal his- or herself when he steps off, and lead him to the safe house. This is all protocol.

 

As he disembarks, he’s startled but not surprised to feel a tap at his right shoulder. A short woman, early 60s with a bad blonde perm, has appeared surreptitiously at his side. She stands up on her tiptoes and whispers ‘ _follow me’_ in his ear. He nods and tails her through the station, up several escalators and out the door to a waiting taxi on 7 th Avenue.

 

The cab ride to Brooklyn is mostly silent, save for the woman’s occasional comment to the driver about how little traffic there is as they navigate and the radio playing obnoxious auto-tuned music. They pull up at the address at long last, a nondescript brown building with several small shops on the ground floor. The blonde woman pays the driver as the nameless man climbs out of the car and stares up. His expression is blank, waiting for the woman to give him his next instructions. With her nod, he follows her through a side door, up three flights of stairs, and watches her smoothly insert a key into the door marked ‘3C’.

 

Inside, the apartment looks like every other Red Room he’s been in. It’s cold, clinical, windowless, with what appears to be a hospital bed in the centre and several banks of monitors. The man turns expectantly and is stunned when the woman presses a button at her lapel and pulls off what appears to be a digital skin. He barely has a moment to register the woman’s real face and note its familiarity before a dart is sticking out of his chest. The world blurs for a moment, then goes black.

 

**2:17 PM**

 

‘He’s waking up now, I think. Damn, Nat, you were right about his metabolism being like Steve’s- that was my highest dose of tranquilizer; should’ve knocked him out for at least 36 hours.’

 

‘Shut up, Clint, I need to talk to him.’

 

The man awakens, blinking his eyes slowly, and surveys his surroundings. he is on the hospital bed with his arms strapped down and an IV steadily dripping fluids into his right forearm. Four people are staring rather intently at him: the woman from before is leaning over his bed; a clean-shaven, brown-haired man is standing in the corner, holding a nocked bow pointed straight at his head; and two women, one younger, with her dark hair in a severe bun and holding a clipboard; the other older, barely over five feet tall, with stern Chinese features. He can feel the restraints on his forearms and know that it’s useless to try to escape, because if these people were clever enough to capture him, logic dictates that they know enough of his strength to keep him subdued. Still, he does have one remaining trump card, a weapon he’s never without, and he swipes his tongue to the back of his mouth to find- a gap where his bottom left molar usually is, the false tooth containing his cyanide pill.

 

‘ _Remain calm, James. We don’t want to have to put you to sleep again right away,’_ says the red-haired woman at his side, and this time, he is able to register that she’s speaking to him in Russian. The language calms him, despite the terror of his surroundings, and he meets her eyes. ‘ _We are representatives of what’s left of SHIELD, and we’ve taken out your handlers and the old Red Room. You are safe with us here.’_ She turns and hisses in English for the archer to lower his bow, and he complies, before she returns to meet his gaze. ‘ _I want you to understand that you will be staying with us for some time, but you are not our enemy. This is Agent Hill,’_ she indicates the woman carrying the clipboard, _‘and Dr Carson,’_ nodding at the Chinese woman, _‘and we are going to help you retrieve yourself. You’ve been through a great deal of pain and suffering for a very long time, and it is time for that to change. Do you understand?’_

His mind is in turmoil. Never have handlers spoken to him like this- like a human being, capable of thoughts and feelings of his own. He can feel the sensation of being separate from his body returning, his brain trying desperately to protect itself by providing him with a calming detachment. It’s all so overwhelming to one used to straightforward order and punishment, so he simply nods in agreement.

 

 _‘May I switch to English, now? We want to get the Russian out of your head,_ ’ says the woman, and he nods again.

 

‘Yes.’ It’s the first word he’s consciously spoken aloud to another person since purchasing the ticket at the Smithsonian, a memory that has a glowing sensation surrounding it, as if from a dream.

 

‘Good. Now, we’re going to put you back under for a while so we can get the mess HYDRA pumped into you out of your system. When you wake up, Dr Carson will assess your mind, and then we’ll bring you in to Mr Stark to run diagnostics on your arm. Is that okay with you?’

 

Again, with the asking for permission, as if he has a choice. It’s unfamiliar and disorienting.  He nods a third time and closes his eyes as the woman moves away from his bed and to the bank of monitors, typing a command directly on the screen. Almost at once he feels himself growing groggy again, and it’s pleasant. This has been a lot.

 

As he drifts off, another memory returns to his head. The name of the mission he gave himself.

 

_James Buchanan Barnes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we're into the meat-and-potatoes of the plot :) I'm sorry this took longer than expected- I'm hoping to have a chapter per day up until this is finished, hopefully by the end of the weekend if my motivation keeps up. This isn't going to be a novel, I promise. 
> 
> Also, yeah, I chickened out on writing explicit smut, but I assure you, it is coming! (Pun absolutely intended.) Where's the fun in putting a Big Bang in a lame flashback sequence, I ask you?!
> 
> Again, feel free to message me at thenakedgeologist on tumblr. I'm always looking for people to share in the Stucky feels :)


	3. Chapter 3

16 April 2014: Day 12

**Morning**

‘Good morning, Steve. I’m Dr Carson- it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, have a seat wherever you feel comfortable.’

 

Steve finds the nearest armchair- there are several of them, in the 50th-floor office as part of the Avengers Tower Medical Center (seriously, he thinks, this building has _everything_ )- and sits, though he isn’t comfortable. This is his first official appointment with a psychologist, and he’s still not too sure about the whole idea, having been raised in an era where clinical psychology was only really offered in the direst of circumstances. Still, Tony has managed to convince him of Dr Miriam Carson’s god-like abilities to dissect and treat depression, anxiety, and PTSD, and since Steve hasn’t slept restfully in months, he’s decided that today’s the day to give it a shot.

 

His image of psychology is very Freud-like, however, and he’s taken by surprise by the diminutive and extremely stern-looking Dr Carson. She seems all business, and not remotely like the kind of person one would normally open up to about all their deepest feelings.

 

‘We’re going to begin today with an assessment. I’ve already been briefed on your public history, so what I want from you today is your personal story- what it was like growing up, your relationships with friends and family, your experiences in Europe during the war, and how you feel you’ve adjusted since waking up two years ago. It’s important for you to be as detailed as possible. I’ll ask you questions for clarification, but mostly, today is going to be you talking and me listening. How does that sound?’

 

 _Extremely tedious,_ Steve thinks. ‘Good,’ he says out loud. He’s still perched on the edge of the chair, as if this could end at any moment.

 

‘Excellent,’ replies Dr Carson. ‘Now, I’m just going to go over the confidentiality policy with you one more time…’ she shuffles her papers, looking for the form that Steve had signed in the waiting room. ‘Yes, so, everything we discuss here is strictly confidential and will not appear in any SHIELD files on you or be shared with any other medical professionals without your express permission. The only exceptions to this policy is in the event that you reveal plans to hurt yourself or others, or you reveal information about child abuse that has not exceeded the Statute of Limitations. Is that clear?’

 

‘Yes,’ says Steve. He’s fidgeting now, playing with the cuffs on his leather jacket, which he’s yet to remove, despite the heat of the day.

 

Dr Carson looks at him and smiles sympathetically, leaning forward in her own chair. ‘Look, Steve. I know this may be uncomfortable for you; it is for most people, and you are a man who hasn’t been in a comfort zone for decades. I know that you know I’m here to help, but therapy is a two-way street- you have to be willing to trust me and work with me. We’ll go over your goals for these sessions next time, but personally, I’d like to see you being able to feel more engaged in your day-to-day activities, and not quite as lost. I really think you can benefit from therapy. Do you?’

 

Steve sighs, resigned to stick out at least this first two hours. ‘I suppose so,’ he says.

 

‘Good. Now, let’s begin with your childhood…’

 

**Early afternoon**

 

‘James? How are you feeling today?’ asks Dr Carson as she closes the door to James’ room in Brooklyn.

 

James looks up from the book he’s been reading: _A Cruel and Shocking Act: The Secret History of the Kennedy Assassination_ , by Philip Shenon. The past few days have been passed mostly by reading, working out, and writing in the journal he’s started to try to keep track of his memories. He’s still not entirely sure which memories have been implanted, which belong to him, which belong to the Winter Soldier, and even where he is, so the Moleskine slipped to him by Natasha upon his second awakening has become his lifeline.

 

‘I am not sure,’ he shrugs, placing his bookmark between the pages and closing the book. ‘I’ve been reading as much as I can get my hands on about 20th century history to try to get a sense of what I missed and what I may have played a part in, but it’s so hard to sort through.’

 

‘That’s perfectly understandable,’ says Dr Carson, taking her usual seat across the foot of James’ bed. ‘I have to say, though, you seem to be doing remarkably well today in terms of your communication. Last time we spoke, you could barely string five words together, but Agents Barton and Hill have both reported massive improvements over the last two days.’

 

‘I think the writing’s helping. I’ve been keeping notes on what I’m able to remember,’ says James, holding up the Moleskine. ‘From what I’ve been able to gather, I haven’t actually needed to talk much for decades, so HYDRA chased a lot of my verbal ability out of me. Also helped to keep me obedient; if I didn’t have words, I couldn’t protest.’ He says this all rather matter-of-fact-ly, doing nothing to indicate the true horror of his past through his words. Dr Carson notes this on her clipboard but doesn’t say anything.

 

‘And what do you remember, James?’ enquires Dr Carson gently.

 

James grips his right wrist with his left, a tic he’s developed since arriving in Brooklyn to help keep him grounded in the present. There have been a few times over the past days that he’s gripped hard enough to leave bruises in the flesh, but with his healing rate they haven’t stuck around long enough for any of the agents to comment- or, perhaps, the agents can tell what he’s doing and know better than to comment. Nevertheless, it’s effective, and he’s doing it now, digging the metal tips of his fingers into the gaps between tendon and bone.

 

‘I remember some missions. Language programming, weapons training, being given information about the target and their whereabouts, completing the mission, returning to the handlers and the Red Room for debriefing and being put in the cryo chamber. My memories from my time as the Winter Soldier have a very present quality about them- I can feel myself making the motions.’

 

He takes a shuddering breath and continues, drilling his left index finger and thumb directly on to the trapezium bone of his right wrist. ‘The memories from before that time play like a movie in my head, so they have a very surreal quality about them. They’re the ones that occur most often in dreams, possibly because they tend to be more relaxing. They’re also a lot more fragmentary and disconnected. I remember… my friend, Steve, and finding him getting beat up in various alleyways throughout our neighbourhood growing up. Dates with girl after girl, and Steve always tagging along. A shopkeeper who would sneak us an extra penny candy or two when Steve’s black eyes weren’t healing fast enough.’

 

Dr Carson tries not to show her amazement at the quality of James’ narratives, just scribbles furiously on her clipboard. ‘What about emotions, James? You speak about these memories especially with a great deal of detachment.’

 

James unclenches his jaw. ‘That’s because they don’t feel like mine. I know they must be, but they feel like they belong to someone else, a relative, a fictional narrator. I don’t feel myself in them. Steve and the shopkeeper could be figments of my imagination.’ He’s growing irritated, now, and he can feel the bruises blooming in his wrist.

 

‘James…. would you like to end our session now? I don’t want to push you.’

 

He meets her eyes and is able to register kindness and concern. Talking has drained him and all he wants is to get back to his book. He nods, and she quickly stands. Today’s session was barely twenty minutes, not the hour he’d been trying to prepare for.

 

‘Remember- I’m here to help. You just have to let one of the agents know if something is wrong and I will come at any time.’

 

He shuts his eyes and wrings his wrist in his left hand, chafing the skin with the bare metal. The door closes as Dr Carson leaves James to his solitude once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot of psycho-babble and not a lot of action. Next chapter's going to be a lot more exciting, I promise :) Especially since Sam's coming back!
> 
> Thanks so much to the commenters, the kudos-givers, and the people who have messaged me on tumblr in support of this work. You guys have no idea how much I appreciate the feedback. <33


	4. Chapter 4

6 May 2014: Day 32

 

‘Hello, Sam?’

 

‘Hey, brother! Nice to hear from you! How’s it goin’?’

 

‘Great. Nice to hear from you, too. Listen, remember we had talked about going after…’ Steve trailed off, unwilling, still, to give a name to the man who had pulled him out of the river.

 

‘You have intel?’

 

‘Yeah. Listen, how fast can you meet me at JFK? I have two tickets to Kyiv leaving at 1800.’

 

‘Geez, Steve, a little more notice would have been nice-‘

 

‘I know, I know, but Natasha only just got the information to me.’

 

‘Alright, it’s what, a… 4 hour drive from here? I’ll be there in 3.’

 

‘Thanks, Sam. I’ll meet you at Departures. I owe you one.’

 

‘No problem, man. Like I said, when Captain America needs my help, I’m in. See you in a few.’

 

7 May 2014: Day 33

 

James follows Natasha obediently into the workshop. He’s not entirely sure what to expect, but it’s not this- robot limbs carefully manipulating complex parts on technologically advanced machines, while the legendary Tony Stark stands behind a 12-foot wide holographic projection, moving objects within it as if they are solidly there. He doesn’t notice them at first, possibly because of the AC/DC music that’s blasting throughout the room, but when Natasha calls out ‘JARVIS, can you please turn the music down?’, Tony turns to the door to see the rather mismatched pair- Natasha in a shapely pair of jeans, Toms, and a light blue cardigan, and James in ill-fitting cargo pants, a baggy hoodie, and- handcuffs.

 

The handcuffs were voluntary; James still doesn’t trust himself in public, despite having spent the last three weeks in therapy. He’s clearly agitated as Natasha leads him into the lab, especially once he spots the chair in the section of the room partitioned off by a glass wall.

 

‘Morning,’ says Tony, removing his work goggles and gloves. He comes forward to shake James’ hand.

 

‘Morning,’ replies James gruffly, taking Tony’s outstretched palm. The metal of his handcuffs clinks against the metal of his left wrist, reminding them both why they are here.

 

‘James, why don’t you go sit down and get comfortable while Tony gets his tools ready. You’ll have to take your shirt off,’ offers Natasha, breaking the moment of awkwardness and looking up at James. He nods in reply and allows himself to be led further into the lab, through the glass door, and gently into the chair, which looks for all the world like a dentist’s chair. A robotic arm wearing a dunce cap is poised as non-menacingly as possible above the left arm rest. He tries to crack a smile as Natasha whispers ‘The robot’s name is DUM-E’ to him, but he’s still too anxious.

 

Tony appears suddenly next to him, holding a long and lethal-looking syringe. James’ eyes widen and he stiffens automatically, gripping both arm rests. ‘When I took diagnostics on your arm a few weeks ago, it was revealed that its attachments to your nervous systems allow you not only gross and fine motor skills, but a certain amount of feeling, most notably pressure and hot/cold perception. This is a local anesthetic, and I’ve calibrated it based on your blood tests to last for eight hours, so you won’t be able to use the arm at all once it’s in. I’m going to inject it directly into your neck, so your entire left side should feel a bit fuzzy until it kicks in fully. Let me know when you can’t feel me tapping in your shoulder with my hammer, although we should be able to see the moment it becomes effective when the arm goes completely limp.’ James grits his teeth and tilts his chin once, indicating his consent to the insertion of the needle. The knuckles of his right hand are white.

 

Not more than two minutes later, the metal hand unclenches completely, and James only hears the clang of the hammer tapping on his shoulder rather than feeling it. Tony smiles, puts the hammer down, and pulls on his gloves.

 

They’re about three hours into the repairs. Tony’s turned the music back on (at a lower volume) and is humming along to ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’ while he solders connections in James’ forearm; Natasha’s curled up on the arm chair in the corner, having moved from completing mission reports on her iPad to playing Candy Crush Saga; when James, who had been almost dozing off, suddenly jolts upright. ‘What the h-‘ manages Tony before James wrenches his left arm away from Tony’s grip with his right hand and jumps to his feet. Even with the left arm dangling useless at his side, James still is able to tackle Tony to the ground with a formidable amount of strength.

 

‘ _Where am I?_ ’ he growls in Russian, straddling Tony on the concrete floor and pressing his flesh hand hard against Tony’s windpipe. ‘ _Who are you? What are you doing to me?’_ Tony scrabbles fruitlessly, trying to push James off, but his strength is rapidly fading as James continues to strangle him.

 

 _‘James! NO!’_ shouts Natasha, springing to her feet. She grabs at his right shoulder but is thrown off before she can get a good grip. Landing on her feet, she sees Tony’s wild eyes staring at the extra syringe on the tool bench. She grabs the syringe and launches herself once again at James, managing this time to stab the needle directly into his jugular.

 

James blinks twice before collapsing on top of Tony, who manages with some difficulty to extricate himself from the weight of the ex-assassin. He scrambles to his feet and looks at Natasha, who is breathing heavily and staring at him, holding the empty syringe in her hand.

 

‘I’m… going to…. go,’ he says. His voice doesn’t betray just how shaken he is, but his bloodshot eyes do. Natasha sinks to the floor to sit down cross-legged beside the unconscious James and tilts her head at Tony, but doesn’t say anything. He takes that as his sign to leave. He needs to see Pepper.

 

Tony runs a hand nervously through his hair before knocking on the door of Pepper’s office. It’s the middle of the day and she’s busy, possibly meeting with Hill to go over the plans for SHIELD’s integration within Stark Industries, and he shouldn’t interrupt her; but he needs her, needs to be grounded and make up his mind as to whether he’s ever going to go near James again.

 

‘Come in,’ says Pepper’s voice, and Tony opens the door to see her sitting behind her desk, reading a bound document. She glances up at him as he walks in, and immediately stands and rushes to pull him into her arms when she sees the state he’s in, the red marks on his neck. Tony surrenders to her embrace, sighing deeply, allowing her to draw the tension out of him the way only she can.

 

‘What happened?’

 

‘He attacked. I thought he was fine, but he must have been triggered by something. Tackled me to the floor and started choking me. Natasha took him out with the tranq we had standing by. Pepper, I- I can’t do it, I can’t go near him again, he’s going to kill me...’ Tony manages all in one breath, pulling back to meet Pepper’s gaze. His hands are still shaking at his side.

 

‘Oh, Tony…’ breathes Pepper, leading him to her couch. ‘He needs your help. Like you said- he was triggered. Remember in Malibu, just before all the shit with Killian went down, when your suit attacked me because you had a nightmare? It’s like that. I believe Hill and Natasha and Carson when they say he’s not dangerous. He’s recovering from a great ordeal, he has the worst case of PTSD that anyone here’s ever seen, he has textbook dissociative identity disorder… he’s messed up, Tony, just like you were, but he also deserves your compassion. You, more than most people, should understand that.’

 

Tony’s still breathing heavily, but it’s evening out as he wrings his hands together. ‘JARVIS?’ he calls out suddenly, thanking Pepper’s foresight for installing the AI throughout the tower.

 

‘Yes, sir?’ says the disembodied voice.

 

‘Can you tell Natasha in the lab to call Dr Carson if she hasn’t already, and that I’ll be down to finish James’ arm in an hour or so when he wakes up?’ Pepper smiles at Tony at the last bit.

 

‘Certainly, sir, although Dr Carson is already en-route. Shall I buzz her into the lab, or send her directly to Ms Potts’ office?’

 

‘Directly here, please, JARVIS. I want to talk to her before I get back to work,’ says Tony, and Pepper’s smile widens.

 

‘Very good.’

 

**Later**

 

James sits up straight in the workshop chair, flexing the fingers of his left hand experimentally. Tony’s beside him, still holding a screwdriver and holding his breath, but he lets it out slowly as James smiles, the first real one he’s seen on the ex-assassin’s face since he was brought in. ‘Good?’ asks Tony.

 

‘Excellent. Thank you, Mr Stark. And again, I’m sorry about before, I-‘

 

‘Don’t worry about it, big guy,’ says Tony, grinning. ‘Any time you need a tune-up now, just let me know.’

 

Everyone present- Natasha, Pepper, Dr Carson, Maria Hill- sighs with relief as James pushes himself up off the chair with the metal arm. After awakening to Dr Carson speaking James’ name and his location slowly and reassuringly, James had voluntarily allowed the doctor to give him a mild sedative to calm his nerves and called Tony back to finish his work. Now, three hours later, he’s feeling much more stable, albeit ready to return to the apartment in Brooklyn and surrender to his dreamless sleep, courtesy of a special concoction sent to the group from a biochemist working with a SHIELD team that’s still on the run.

 

‘James, we’re going to take you home now,’ says Dr Carson. James returns her look.

 

‘Please, Dr Carson- while Tony was working, I realised that maybe another way to quell the triggers is to use the name I had before I was the Winter Soldier. Since we’re starting intense daily treatment tomorrow, I think it’d be best to go by Bucky. Maybe it will also help me get some more of my memories back.’

 

‘I agree, it may be of some help… Bucky it is, then.’

 

Bucky smiles again, and it’s easier this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wait, my loyal fans- I had a lot of writers' block surrounding this section, and decided ultimately that the other part (Steve's trip) could be saved for the next chapter, or even just in passing conversation. This story isn't about Steve beating up HYDRA agents, it's about Bucky's recovery. 
> 
> Thanks to Rebecca for allowing me to blather on and on about my plans for this story; to Laura, for giving me excellent music recommendations (Shostakovich Symphony 5, 3rd movement), and to Ellie, for staying up with me well past her bed time and providing inspiration by way of very comforting licks and cuddles. I'm hoping to have the next part up within two or so days, and after that, maybe just two more chapters to go. Any questions or comments can be directed to my tumblr, thenakedgeologist. Much love <3


	5. Chapter 5

10 May 2014: Day 36

‘Are we agreed now that it wasn’t a waste of time?’ asks Sam, looking at Steve in the window seat of the plane. They’re flying over the Atlantic, returning home, and Steve hasn’t said more than five words to him since they left the remnants of the Hydra cell for the last time the previous day. He’s staring out the window. It’s unusually clear for 33 000 feet, and the blue of the ocean is visible between puffs of clouds, along with the curved seam connecting sea and sky.

 

‘I think Natasha lied,’ says Steve quietly, muffled because he’s still turned away from Sam.

 

Sam had already resigned himself to a one-sided conversation, so he’s surprised by Steve’s response, despite the fact that it hasn’t really answered the question. ‘What makes you think that?’ he asks. ‘Just because we didn’t find him, doesn’t mean the intel was bad. Taking out that cell was worth something. So was releasing those prisoners. It’s not much, but I’m sick of seeing news about more innocent people being detained because they disagree with the way the politics in their country are being run.’

 

Steve shrugs noncommittally and finally turns to look at Sam. ‘Breaking twenty protestors out of prison and killing a few sleeper agents is great, Sam, but we’re no closer to solving the larger problem here. The fact that the conflict in Ukraine is continuing is a sign that the Winter Soldier isn’t involved, because if he were, you know as well as I that a key figure would have been assassinated by now. So we’re left with a few possibilities: either he’s been re-captured and they’re starting from scratch with him or keeping him in cryostasis; he’s wandering hopelessly in the DC metro area with no idea who he is or how to take care of himself, because I doubt Hydra ever taught a mindless weapon to be self-sufficient; or…’ he pauses here, takes a deep breath, ‘he’s dead, killed by Hydra or SHIELD or some punks in a back alley.’

 

Sam doesn’t quite know what to say to this outpouring of thoughts from Steve. Steve’s still staring at him directly, and Sam can see how much turmoil there is within Steve, how he’s barely containing himself. Dispatching a handful of Hydra agents, dismantling a base located smack-dab below the Verkhovna Rada building in Constitution Square, surreptitiously releasing twenty civilians from unlawful imprisonment and helping them to find passage with their families to Slovakia and the rest of the EU- and all within the course of a three day visit- these should be feats celebrated, but instead Steve has become more withdrawn.

 

Steve continues, ‘I’m honestly not sure which option is the worst anymore. Natasha knows more than she’s letting on, so I’ll have to talk to her when we get back.’

 

There’s a pause, the weight of Steve’s words hanging in the air. He’s breathing heavily now, his knuckles going white on the edges of the arm rests. Sam can recognise this tension in his friend, having seen the onset of a panic attack dozens of times in his work as a veteran’s counsellor. Gently, Sam reaches over with his right hand and grips Steve’s left forearm. The sudden pressure and warmth catches Steve mid-inhale, and he sighs deeply before relaxing just slightly into Sam’s touch.

 

‘Steve, man… there are other possibilities, too. Maybe he’s getting help. Maybe he’s looking for you.’

 

Steve sounds hollow when he next speaks, although it’s an improvement over an impending panic attack. ‘There’s something else I haven’t told you yet. I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist, and she says I have a mental illness. She wants me to start on anti-depressants, but I still don’t know if that’s a good idea. They probably won’t work with my metabolism, anyway.’

 

‘To be perfectly honest, I’m not surprised. I’ve only known you for a little more than a month, and I’m not a doctor, but even I can see that you have depression.’ Sam grips Steve’s arm a little tighter. ‘You have to do something for me, though- listen to this doctor. She wants to help you. Open up to her. Follow her advice and do your homework. Be honest with her and yourself, and if she suggests trying out medications, take them. They’re designed to give your mood a stable baseline so you can focus on the emotional aspects of therapy.’

 

Another pause as Steve digests this. Then: ‘You sound like you’ve got some experience in this area.’

 

Sam smiles. ‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘Since about two months after I left the service, when I noticed I was averaging 3 hours of sleep a night on the rare occasions that I did sleep. Once I saw how much my own health improved from meds and therapy, I realised that maybe I could help out other folks, fellow vets who were going through the same thing, so I started taking night classes to become a social worker.’

 

‘Alright,’ says Steve, ‘I’ll give this therapy thing more effort. Thanks, Sam.’

 

‘Not a problem, brother. And listen- you ever want to talk about this stuff with me, I’m there.’ Sam removes his hand from Steve’s arm, gauging that Steve’s holding himself together enough now to do without.

 

They lapse into companionable silence for the next few hours, Steve pondering Sam’s words and trying to quell the growing anxiety over Bucky’s fate.

 

17 May 2014: Day 43

_After the latest wipe he was not able to think much, but he could feel. The door to the chamber closed and all he could see was a face staring at him through the glass that was slowly turning opaque with creeping frost spiders. The eyes of the man before him were wide with terror, and he wanted to reach out, to help the man before him- but in a horrifying flash, he understood that the man was his own reflection, that he was the one in need of help. He tried to pound on the door, but the chill had settled deep in his bones, freezing them in place. He tried to cry out, but he had no voice as the cold constricted his windpipe. The ice held him, froze him in suspended animation, but his consciousness did not slow for hours, and every second stretched into an eternity of agony._

Bucky wakes up screaming, giving a voice to the torture of the cryo chamber that he’d never been able to give when it was actually happening. Zola and Lukin and Pierce and all the other Handlers and scientists who had poked and prodded at him across the decades- they had had no idea of the reality of being frozen. Or, perhaps, they had known, but since the Winter Soldier was nothing but a tool to be used when the work was too dirty for their hands, a machine they could re-set with a simple procedure, they had never bothered to fix the calibration of the chamber or put him to sleep before stuffing him in.

 

‘Bucky? Are you alright? Do you need something?’ A voice, male, _Agent Barton’s_ , he thinks, filters in through the PA system in his room and Bucky closes his mouth, cutting off the scream. He looks up to the camera in a top corner and nods, his eyes wide. Within a few moments there’s a knock at the door.

 

Clint takes in the figure curled up on the bed, chin to knees, arms wrapped around shins like a vice and shaking more than a young tree in a storm, repeating the words ‘James Buchanan Barnes’ over and over again in a low voice. Dr Carson had trained him in the practise of dealing with Bucky’s attacks, but this is the first time he’s facing the reality of one. He moves forward and climbs onto the bed behind Bucky, pulling the trembling man into an embrace and applying firm, even pressure to as much of Bucky as he can with his arms and torso.

 

Gradually the shaking subsides and Bucky begins to relax, which Clint takes as his cue to release the man and relocate to the nearest chair. Bucky takes a deep, shuddering breath and finally meets Clint’s eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, to offer something to dispel the sudden awkwardness, but Clint beats him to it.

 

‘I went through the same thing, Bucky. For months after the Battle of New York, I’d wake up in a cold sweat, sometimes screaming and thrashing about and sometimes paralysed and silent. Still do, on occasion. Dr Carson treated me and she taught Nat how to support me through the attacks. That’s why I volunteered for this detail- I know better than anyone else on the team what it’s like to not belong to myself.’

 

‘What happened to you?’ asks Bucky quietly.

 

‘It’s a bit complicated to explain, but the gist is Loki used some creepy alien magic to take complete control of my brain and body. He used me to infiltrate my SHIELD team and kill a bunch of agents so he could steal a Quinjet. I don’t know how much longer I would have been his puppet if Nat hadn’t hit me so hard on the head that he was flushed out. “Cognitive recalibration,” she called it. But a few days later the memories started coming back and I ended up in a psych ward pretty similar to this.’ Clint can’t help but smile a little at the complete shock on Bucky’s face. It’s been a while since he told the story to a fresh audience.

 

After a few moments of contemplation, Bucky is able to gather himself enough to ask the burning question: ‘So you’re ok, now? They fixed you?’

 

Clint shrugs, sitting back in his chair and resting his feet on the edge of the bed. ‘I wouldn’t say “fixed”, Bucky. We’re too organic and unpredictable to ever be completely renewed after something like that. Dr Carson says I might still get the occasional nightmare for the rest of my life. But I’ve learned to take care of myself, and to ask for help when I can’t. I’m functioning and pretty healthy. Most importantly, to me at least, I’ve been able to return to active service.’

 

Bucky nods thoughtfully, and a wave of tiredness hits him. He suddenly thinks to check the clock hung up on the wall- 3:17 AM. Clint catches Bucky’s stifled yawn and stands to leave.

 

As Clint reaches the doorway, he turns one last time to the man on the bed. ‘For what it’s worth, man, I can already see enormous progress in you. You’re getting there. You probably won’t even have to stay cooped up here for a lot longer, maybe just a few more weeks.’

 

Despite his exhaustion, Bucky remains awake for another hour or so after Clint closes the door to his room. His thoughts are churning, deliberating over Agent Barton’s words. Until now, he hadn’t really considered the steps following the end of his treatment. And there’s something else, too: a memory that’s been taking root within his consciousness ever since his intensive therapy started. A recurring character in all his non-Winter Soldier flashbacks, slowly replacing them as the recollections which have substance and feeling and presence.

 

_Blue eyes, blonde hair, and a smile brighter than sunshine. A desire to protect the fearless boy. Patching up scraped knees and elbows. Holding the skinny body close to his in the dead of winter, offering as much heat as possible._

_Rushed kisses and muffled moans in a tent in France. Licking his way down a well-muscled back and feeling the full-body shudders as he pressed further into the tight heat of the man beneath him. Laughter and good-natured punches in the sides as he downed his third beer at a dimly-lit bar in London._

 

_Dragging the uniformed man out of the murky river. Checking his pulse, his breathing._

_Steve Rogers,_ Bucky thinks, as he finally starts to drift off to sleep. _He is real. He is my… friend._

 

21 May 2014: Day 47

Natasha relaxes her thighs, releasing the chokehold she has on Steve. They’re finally back to some semblance of a usual morning routine, training in the Avengers Tower gym (43rd floor). Natasha’s been trying to teach Steve a few new techniques for escaping restraints, starting with her very own go-to: her own legs, wrapped around an enemy’s neck; but Steve isn’t even trying today.  She rolls off of him gracefully and crosses the mat to grab her towel. ‘What is with you today, Rogers? Still hung up on Kyiv? I told you, my tip was from a reliable source.’

 

Steve sighs, laying flat on his back still. They’ve already been over this countless times, but he still can’t help the nagging feeling that Natasha’s hiding something.

 

She moves to sit cross-legged next to him, handing him his water bottle. ‘It’s not the intel I doubt, Tasha,’ Steve says, avoiding her eyes. ‘There certainly was a Hydra base, right where you said it would be, and we found information there that confirmed its previous use as a containment area for the Winter Soldier.’

 

‘I don’t see what the problem is. It was a good mission, Rogers, you should be proud.’

 

‘But he’s still out there, damn it! I don’t know where or what’s happened to him!’

‘ _Steve_ ,’ says Natasha, standing and offering her hand to help him reluctantly to his feet. She stares him hard in the eyes. ‘Listen to me. If he were dead, we would know. My money is on him being out there still, and believe it or not, he’s taking care of himself. It’s been done. You have to trust me.’

 

‘But-‘ says Steve, but Natasha cuts him off.

 

‘You may know Bucky better than anyone, but I know the Winter Soldier better than he knows himself. You have to stop looking and take care of yourself. He will come to you when he’s ready.’

 

Steve closes his eyes and tries desperately to believe her. He wants to believe her, more than anything else. He hears her stalking out of the gym, giving up the training for a bad job, and he can’t really blame her.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there :) :) :)
> 
> I've got maybe two more chapters' worth of material for this story, so expect the finale soon! As well, once it's all up and posted, I'm going to go back and make a few very minor edits to the first few chapters, based on suggestions and comments. Stay tuned, and as always, thanks so much for your support!


	6. Chapter 6

14 June 2014: Day 71

**Afternoon**

It’s time for his final outgoing assessment, and Bucky still hasn’t let it sink in that he’s finally going to be leaving the cramped facility in Brooklyn that’s been his home for two months. He hasn’t been allowed to explore beyond the gym, the kitchenette, his bedroom, and the small courtyard with half a basketball court since his intake, and although he’s been kept busy and with company, the cabin fever has set in. When he takes a moment from packing his few belongings to wipe the sweat off his forehead, he notices that Agent Hill and Dr Carson have joined Natasha and Clint in his room.

 

‘Afternoon,’ he says brightly to them, and gestures to the chairs grouped in a rough circle around the card table he’s had set up as a makeshift desk. They smile back at him as they take their seats, both clutching their ever-present clipboards, although he notes to himself that they’re significantly more relaxed this time than they were at his very first assessment. A lot has changed.

 

‘Good afternoon, Bucky. Glad to see you’re almost completely packed,’ says Dr Carson. ‘We’ve just got a few things to go over, and then you can finish up and head out with Agents Romanoff and Barton.’ As she says their names, Natasha and Clint both place their respective boxes (Natasha’s full of Bucky’s books, Clint’s stuffed haphazardly with clothes) on the floor and join them at the table, and Bucky finally takes his own seat. He’s slightly anxious about this, but Clint had assured him last night that the final assessment is the easiest part, so he loosely grips his right wrist in his left hand in his lap under the table and takes a deep breath.

 

‘So!’ says Maria warmly. ‘Shall we begin? Natasha?’

 

‘Yes, right,’ says Natasha smoothly. She stands and moves behind Clint in order to whisper in Bucky’s ear. All eyes are on them as she mutters in Russian the key command phrases found in Bucky’s file, from the simple requests for mission reports to the deeper-embedded code words for ‘kill’, ‘asset’, ‘target’, ‘suicide’, and ‘obey’, designed to trigger instant compliance from the Winter Soldier in case of unexpected events or disobedience. Bucky is trembling as she speaks, his heart rate rising and his jaw clenched, but he remains still, forcing as much air as he can into his lungs with every inhale and then letting it out in a slow exhale. He opens his mouth as Natasha’s words become more insistent and begins repeating his name over and over, ‘ _James Buchanan Barnes,_ ’ fighting to keep a Russian inflection out of his words until, finally, Natasha goes quiet. He’s still shaking slightly and there will definitely be new bruises on his right forearm soon, but he can see the pleased expressions of his companions and he allows himself to feel pride.

 

Dr Carson is actually grinning, the first time he’s ever seen it on her, and it just contributes to the rising feeling within him that he’s _going to be okay._ These four people have spent the last two months monitoring him, treating him, teaching him independence and how to handle flashbacks and panic attacks, showing him the kind of kindness he hasn’t known in over seventy years, and he can’t express in words how thankful he is. Maria moves on to remind him of how he’ll be monitored over the next six months (checking in with either her or Dr Carson every 72 hours; allowing Stark to install a tracker and vitals monitor in his arm), and Clint is practically bouncing out of his chair with excitement when he tells Bucky they can start tactics training together next week. The assessment wraps up with his signature on the release and consent documents, and as Maria and Dr Carson leave him, Clint, and Natasha to finish packing, there’s a lightness within him that he can barely contain.

 

**Evening**

Bucky is just placing the last book on his bookshelf when Natasha comes in. It’s Clint’s recently vacated residence within Avengers Tower (Clint having finally convinced Natasha to transition from ‘sleepover buddies’ to ‘roommates’) that Bucky is now living in, so he’s not surprised that she has a key. The sun’s setting, painting Natasha’s pale skin a delicate rosy gold with its last rays as she flops onto his bed. ‘Yes?’ he says, turning to her.

 

‘We need to talk. About the elephant in the room. I didn’t want to bring it up in front of everyone else.’

 

Bucky sighs, deciding in that instant that the time has indeed come to address the issue he’s been avoiding for weeks. ‘Steve,’ he mutters.

 

‘Yes. Steve. You know he lives here, just a few floors below you, and he still doesn’t know that you’re even alive, let alone neighbours. You can’t avoid him for much longer- he’s bound to find out sooner, rather than later, and to be quite frank I am tired of lying to him. Now, either I can tell him everything or you can, but it has to happen tomorrow. There’s no way you can hide from him anymore.’

 

The mattress groans as Bucky settles next to her, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Can I tell you why I haven’t wanted to talk about him?’ he offers. Natasha doesn’t respond, doesn’t move, afraid of scaring Bucky off the delicate topic. He takes a deep breath and launches into his next words.

 

‘I still don’t have every memory back from before. I probably never will, but that’s not important. What’s important is that I know now what Steve was- is- to me. From the time I was a kid and I pulled two thugs off him, brought him home to my ma to patch up his skinned knees, my entire existence orbited around his. When we had nothing during the Depression, we had each other. He tutored me in math after I failed my first test because I spent too much time in class pulling Emma Horton’s pigtails and trying to peek up her skirt. I worked 80 hours in one week doing back-breaking labour so I could afford his asthma medicine while he shivered in our bed, and never once did I consider it a debt he’d have to repay. I realised when I was sixteen that I was head-over-heels for him and lived an entire year in terror that if he caught me staring at him for just a moment too long he’d never speak to me again- broke a lot of girls’ hearts that year, trying to pretend that I could ever love anyone else. Got real drunk on my birthday and tried to kiss him, and instead of running away screaming, he kissed me back. Next time I was scared was when America joined the war and he started talking about enlisting. I prayed every single night that he’d keep getting rejected, but the stubborn son of a gun kept applying. The night before I left for Europe I broke down crying and he held me that entire night, tried wrapping his scrawny self around me like I always had for him, lied to my face and told me he’d given up trying to enlist.’

 

Bucky is pacing now, wringing his hands together. ‘He showed up at that lab after I had been experimented upon for weeks, and all I could see was how the army had taken my Steve and turned him into something unfamiliar and wrong and I was terrified that he’d been put through what Zola had been doing to me. It made me sick to look at him, but I followed him out like I always have. He explained the procedure to me when we marched back to the base and I understood that Steve hadn’t changed a bit, just been given a body strong enough to support the weight of his brilliant spirit.

 

‘I have loved that man for my entire life. In the early years of the Winter Soldier program, they didn’t know yet that they had to put me on ice in between missions, just left me in a cell, and I’d regress, start calling out for Steve. Even during my last mission, in DC, him saying my name on the bridge was enough to break through decades of mind wipes and reach me, Bucky, within the Asset. They tortured me hard before they wiped me that night but I awoke the next day with something already scrambled in my programming, like an itch in my brain. That’s why I didn’t kill him on the Helicarrier and why I pulled him out of the river- because something in me knew that this target was meant to be saved. I knew what he meant to me even when I didn’t have a “me”.

 

‘And the last he was aware, I was beating the ever-living shit out of him. I can’t face him, Natasha. He thinks I’m a monster.’

 

‘Bucky,’ says Natasha, grabbing his arm and pulling him down to lay flat on the bed beside her. ‘He doesn’t. He knows you saved him. He’s been tearing himself apart for the last two months because he doesn’t know what’s happened to you. I had to give him a dummy mission in Kyiv in May so he’d stop nagging me, and when he came back he was pretty much crumbling in front of me, begging me to give him just the slightest hint about where you were because somehow, he got it into his head that I knew. He’s single-minded to the point of self-destruction and if I hadn’t planted a lot of red herrings over the last few weeks I’m pretty sure he would have done something incredibly dangerous and stupid to find you. Trust me- he needs you right now, as much as you need him. You have to see him.’

 

Beside her, Bucky’s gone still. He’s trying to process her words but it’s so much to take in; he wishes he could take the easy way out, but there is no easy way here and he can’t go back to letting his life be controlled by others. Bucky feels when Natasha pushes herself up off the bed, leaving him laying horizontally across the mattress, staring at the ceiling. ‘I know it’s going to be difficult, but you can do it, Bucky. I’ve seen you go from a shell of a human being to who you are today in just two months.’ She grabs his metal arm and pulls him upright, then stands between his legs and puts her hands gently on his shoulders. Their eyes are level like this and he doesn’t try to avoid hers now.

 

‘You don’t have to go it alone,’ she says softly. ‘You can let yourself be loved.’

 

Bucky allows her to pull his head to her chest. His mounting panic subsides when he hears her heartbeat, and he realises it’s because he used Steve’s heartbeat during their time in the war to pull him back to himself when the memories of being a prisoner and an experiment threatened to overwhelm him. The memories he carries now are indescribably worse, but Natasha’s heartbeat reminds him- just as Steve’s did, just as Clint’s steady, warm pressure on his shuddering body did, just as Dr Carson’s soothing words did- that he can fight those demons within him. Natasha holds him while he cries for the first time in over seven decades, and when he’s finished and her shirt is thoroughly ruined, she leaves him to gather the courage he thinks he’ll need to face Steve; she knows, though, that courage won’t be required when all he’ll be doing is coming home.

 

15 June 2014: Day 72

 

Steve’s just about to hop in the shower when he hears a knock at his door. Cursing, he turns the water off and scrambles to put his sweaty running clothes back on. ‘Natasha!’ he barks. ‘Just because I’m five minutes late for our training session doesn’t mean I’m not coming! Aren’t assassins supposed to have patience?’

 

He opens the door to his apartment, expecting Natasha to throw some sarcastic comment back to him, but standing in the foyer is not Natasha.

 

It’s Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE FINALLY HERE WHEEEEEEEEE


	7. Chapter 7

15 June 2014: Day 72

 

‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ swears Steve.

 

‘Not like you to take the Lord’s name in vain,’ Bucky says sardonically. ‘Are you gonna invite me in, Stevie?’

 

Steve swallows, composing himself. ‘Are you here to kill me?’ he says.

 

Bucky stares at him, then drops his eyes guiltily. ‘I suppose that is a fair question, but no, I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to talk to you. Now, may I please come in?’

 

Steve finally moves from where he’s been blocking the doorway and eyes Bucky warily as he walks stiffly into his apartment and takes a seat on the couch. Bucky looks around. ‘Nice place,’ he says.

 

‘Thanks,’ says Steve, following him in and closing the door. ‘I… uh, I was just about to take a shower when you knocked, do you mind…? I’ll only be about five minutes. Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen.’

 

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t look quite like the crazed killer Steve remembers from their last encounter, so Steve takes that as a sign that he’s safe enough to shower. He locks the door to the bathroom for good measure, though.

 

Five minutes later, Steve emerges, his hair sticking up in wet spikes and wearing shorts and a clean t-shirt that’s sticking to his still-damp skin. Bucky hasn’t moved from his perch on the sofa, and Steve takes the chair opposite him, running his hand nervously through his hair. ‘So,’ he says, breaking the silence between them. ‘You said you wanted to talk?’

 

‘Yeah,’ Bucky sighs, leaning forward and wringing his hands together. Steve sees the action and notes that Bucky almost looks like Bruce when he’s trying to rein his stress in. The thought comforts him, somehow, as if seeing a subtle coping mechanism is indication that the man before him is actually human, or at least, close to it. ‘I’ve got a lot to say, though, so you have to be willing to listen,’ continues Bucky.

 

‘All ears.’ Steve sits back in his chair and puts his feet up on the ottoman.

 

‘In December of 1944, I fell from a train in Austria and landed in a ravine. I thought I was dead, because I couldn’t feel anything and was surrounded by white, but it turns out that was just the hypothermia setting in. Zola’s experiments on me when I was a POW allowed me to survive, despite being frozen in a river for over a month- much like you would, later, although I had no idea of that at the time. I was finally discovered and re-animated by Hydra scientists, directed by Zola and his protégé, Aleksander Lukin, a Soviet scientist who had joined Hydra because he believed more in their work than in Stalin’s political ideologies. Together, they fitted me with a prosthetic cybernetic arm- my left had been unsalvageable due to frostbite- and turned me into their guinea pig to test new mind-altering drugs. I tried to resist them but I was completely helpless in their power, because it’s not like they were torturing me for information; they were turning me into a weapon. It took them a few years of trial and error, during which time they figured out that if I was left awake for more than a week or so at a time I would regress and be completely useless to them, unable to follow orders, but eventually they had the method perfected- freeze, thaw, be injected, conditioned, carry out mission, give report, wipe, freeze. By this point, of course, the War had ended and the operation had to be moved far underground, but a new war was beginning between the USSR and the USA, and Zola’s forces had been successfully implanted within SHIELD.'

Steve sits in complete silence and stillness as he listens, his body language concealing well the inner torment he's experiencing while Bucky narrates. Hearing the story like this, coming from the man Steve has loved since he was a teenager... The shift from distrust to cautious optimism to anguish is a lot for him to contain. He leaves his face carefully blank as Bucky continues.

 

‘The cycle continued for the next seven decades. I was passed from group to group, because ultimately my use had nothing to do with a particular political regime and everything to do with simply tipping the scales towards global chaos wherever and whenever it was necessary. I was responsible for the deaths of political leaders, CEOs, spies for both sides, but I was never kept awake for more than a few days. In the last seventy years I don’t think I’ve aged more than a couple months. The only exception was a period in the late 80s when they had invented a new retrograde amnesia drug that allowed me to be active for four or so weeks; they used me to train a group of girls, all younger than 15, as part of a new project they were starting called Codename: Black Widow. The only one of those girls who wasn’t eliminated at the end of the Cold War was Natalia- Natasha- and even though I was wiped and frozen at least a half-dozen times between training her and her mission in Odessa, I had spent enough time with her in particular in the past that my subconscious must have recognised her and I chose to shoot through her abdomen instead of her head. My torture after that mission was particularly brutal, nearly as bad as what they put me through after I recognised you on the bridge in DC.’

 

Bucky finally pauses here and turns to meet Steve’s eyes. Steve’s expression is unreadable, but his posture radiates tension like a physical force. Bucky continues, ‘through this all, you have to understand- I was a puppet. I had absolutely no will or identity of my own. I’ve spent the last two months in a psychiatric facility slowly piecing together my memories, both those from before and during my time as the Winter Soldier. I don’t sleep without vicious nightmares of what I was made to do. I have panic attacks that can be triggered by a glimpse of a reflection. I tend to dissociate completely when I’m overwhelmed. It’s only due to the extremely hard work and endless patience of Agents Barton, Romanoff and Hill, and Dr Carson, that I’m stable enough to be sitting here right now, telling you this. Even their work, as thorough as it was, wasn’t enough, Steve; I need your help to fit a few final puzzle pieces in place.’

 

Steve still doesn’t say anything, and Bucky becomes agitated. _Natasha was wrong about him,_ he thinks, as the silence continues to stretch. He’s just about to stand up and walk out the door when Steve finally opens his mouth: ‘Clint and Natasha and Maria and… Dr Carson? _My_ therapist? They’ve been keeping this all from me?’

 

‘To be fair to Dr Carson, there’s a code of doctor-patient confidentiality,’ says Bucky with a wry smile. ‘Maria had to oversee everything, since the facility was originally set up by SHIELD. As for Natasha, well- she did this for you. She didn’t owe me anything when she brought me in, but she owes you her life. She cares very deeply about you, Steve, and she knows you well enough to see that you were not fit to help me the way I needed to be helped. Clint was in on it largely because Natasha needed some back-up, I suspect, but ultimately he stayed because he saw a lot of his own brainwashing trauma in me and wanted to help. They’re both genuinely good people. Friends, even.’

 

Steve rises from his chair and moves tentatively to sit next to Bucky on the couch. He’s shaking slightly, and Bucky’s surprised to see a sparkle of wetness in his eyes before he draws the back of his hand across his face to wipe it away. ‘Geez, Steve, I’m sorry, I-‘

 

‘Don’t ever say sorry to me, Bucky’ says Steve, cutting Bucky’s apology off. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. I should have been there, I should have looked for you, back during the War… you were there for me my whole life, and when you needed me to save yours I wasn’t… I’ve been so lost without you, Buck. I’ve been living in this century now for more than two years and can count the number of people I’ve connected to on two hands with fingers to spare, and one of them’s my therapist. I’ve been diagnosed with depression, and I gotta tell you that I wasn’t plannin’ on swimming in the Potomac. But my personal hell since I lost you doesn’t even begin to compare with yours.’

 

‘Steve, if I wanted your sympathy or to play a game of pass-the-guilt, I would’ve said something. We both know that’s not why we’re here.’

 

Letting out a shaking breath and swiping his wrist across his eyes again, Steve says, ‘What are we here for, then?’

 

‘’Cause we said we’d be. End of the line, remember?’

 

It’s enough to solidify the tenuous bridge between them. Steve reaches up to lightly brush Bucky’s jaw with his fingertips and Bucky sighs. Their lips meet, tentatively at first, but then with growing desperation as each recognises the real longing in the other for an intimacy they’ve been denied for decades. It’s only when Steve feels the touch of cool metal fingers on the small of his back that he’s able to break away. ‘Bucky, I’m not… I just…’

 

‘What?’ murmurs Bucky, pulling his left hand from under Steve’s shirt.

 

Steve gathers both of Bucky’s hands in his own, running his thumbs over the palms. ‘I want you and I’ve missed you, but we can’t do this like this. I need to make sure you’re really okay, first. Only one behind the wheel, y’know, because I don’t want to take advantage. It’s a lot to process.’

 

‘Too damn noble for your own good,’ says Bucky, smiling.

 

‘I’ve got an image to uphold, Bucky,’ Steve replies with the faintest trace of a smirk. He stands up and pulls Bucky with him toward the door. ‘C’mon, I wanna re-acquaint you with New York City. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

 

**Later**

‘You’re sure Stark doesn’t mind us up on his roof like this?’ says Bucky, relaxing into the cushioned depression beside the elaborate fire pit. The rooftop of Avengers Tower is a prime party location, boasting a fully-stocked bar, a hot tub, an elaborate sound system, the fire pit with its surrounding ring of upholstery where Steve and Bucky are settled now, and- most importantly- a force-field around the edge that keeps the worst of the wind at bay while still allowing a gentle breeze to play with Bucky’s hair.

 

‘Nah,’ Steve replies, taking a few strands out of the wind and twining them between his fingers absently. ‘Tony’s away with Pepper somewhere down south right now, and he did say I could use the rooftop whenever I wanted, provided I checked the schedule with JARVIS first. Besides,’ he says, looking up appreciatively, ‘it’s the only place in Manhattan where you can actually see the stars.’

 

Bucky hums in agreement. It’s certainly not the mostly-clear view they grew up with, but Avengers Tower is high enough above the rest of the city that a lot of the light pollution has dissipated. Their city has changed substantially, as Steve showed him today, but its spirit has been maintained in the bustle of the subway stations and the bright extravagance of Times Square. They’d spent most of their day wandering anywhere in Manhattan that they could think of and alternating between periods of non-stop talking and periods of companionable silence. Now, as they recline side-by-side on the rooftop of what he still can’t bring himself to believe is their _home_ , Bucky thinks that maybe Natasha turned out to be right after all- he can allow himself to be loved.

 

He mentions this to Steve and Steve can’t help but crack a grin. He’s still more than a little peeved at Natasha for keeping Bucky from him for two whole months, but he’s seen throughout the day that her work in securing Bucky and getting proper treatment for him has paid off. Bucky will never be the same person he was before the Winter Soldier, and Steve has come to accept that, because what he has now is more than enough. The man beside him is a little more cautious, a little more withdrawn; and there were definitely moments throughout the day that Steve noticed Bucky disconnecting from the present with a far-away look on his face, but with a hard grip to his flesh wrist (Steve having very quickly picked up that particular tic), Bucky would return to Steve. And Steve knows that he himself isn’t always there, that sometimes his own anxiety is set off by the most unexpected triggers. They’d talked extensively over a dinner of hotdogs in Central Park and agreed that their mutual mental health problems are something they are both willing to work with.

 

And now… now it’s time to fulfil the unspoken promises made between them with sidelong glances and the brush of fingertips against bare skin. Steve’s gazing at Bucky with a hungry look as he continues to twiddle a few locks of the long, brown hair between his fingers, and Bucky decides that it’s about time to kiss said look off of Steve’s face. He crosses the inches between them and does so, his lips capturing Steve’s. They’re both smiling into the kiss and it’s ridiculous how warm Bucky feels as he reaches to cup the back of Steve’s head in his metal hand.

 

Steve’s breath catches as Bucky’s tongue works its way into his mouth, and goosebumps erupt all over his skin. It’s all he can do to pull away long enough to drag Bucky’s shirt over his head and shoulders. His hands trace the warm planes of Bucky’s back as he kisses down the side of Bucky’s neck and across his left collar bone to where warm flesh meets cool metal. Bucky lets out a small whine when Steve’s tongue reaches the juncture of his prosthetic arm, and Steve pauses, glancing up to see Bucky with his eyes wide and pupils blown. ‘Can you feel anything here?’ he whispers.

 

‘Used to be just hot, cold, and pressure, but Stark must’ve improved the sensitivity…’ Bucky trails off as Steve runs the flat of his tongue down the metal tricep and kisses his way toward Bucky’s fingertips. ‘What are you doing?’

 

‘You said you still felt like this arm wasn’t a part of you, and I get that you associate a lot of bad feelings with it. I want to show you that some good can come from it, too. I trust you to be in control.’ Bucky tenses, because all he can think of is how that hand was used to choke Steve not too long ago. Steve tentatively presses another kiss to the knuckles of his fist until gradually the hand opens. ‘I know you feel you can do nothing but destroy with this, but I think you can create something instead. Do you?’ he says, and he’s smiling so sincerely that Bucky can’t help but comply.

 

Bucky has a few ideas now about creating, too.

 

He pushes Steve against the cushions and straddles him. Steve eagerly complies when Bucky lifts up the hem of his shirt and in short order it joins Bucky’s own where it’s been tossed somewhere out of their reach. Bucky bypasses Steve’s mouth and goes straight for his neck, sucking a bruise at the pulse point that he knows will be there at least until the morning despite Steve’s healing factor. He lives for the way Steve’s entire body shudders when he drags his tongue over a nipple and brings it into his mouth to gently suck. As his mouth works, his hands deftly undo Steve’s belt and pull his shorts off, throwing them, as well, across the rooftop. Bucky manoeuvres Steve so that he’s laying flat on his back, running his hands over Steve’s stomach and bending to dip his mouth lower and lower. By the time Bucky’s mouth reaches the hem of Steve’s briefs Steve is completely wrecked, and Bucky can’t help but feel a little smug as he settles on his knees between Steve’s bent legs and plants a kiss on the warm bulge barely contained by cotton.

 

‘ _Jesus,_ Buck’ hisses Steve as Bucky slowly pulls the briefs over Steve’s legs, leaving him finally, deliciously bare for Bucky to admire. And admire he does; Steve’s cock is rock hard and already leaking at the tip, and Bucky licks his lips wickedly as he takes it all in. With torturous precision he runs the tip of his tongue up its length, and is rewarded with a long, drawn-out moan from Steve, whose hands are desperately seeking something to grip. As Bucky slides his mouth over the head, he offers his own hands to Steve, who eagerly laces their fingers together.

 

Bucky hums contentedly as he works with his tongue and lips to dismantle Steve, alternating between sucking, licking, and feather-light, teasing kisses. He thinks that the noises Steve makes are sweeter than a symphony, and decides as Steve cries his name out like a prayer to make it a personal goal of his to hear these sounds as often as possible. Steve’s fingers are flexing and curling uncontrollably within his own, and it’s with great regret that he pulls his left hand out of the grasp of Steve’s right to reach down and place a finger just at the edge of Steve’s entrance.

 

‘Do you have…?’ Bucky says, disengaging his mouth and sitting back on his heels to look down at Steve. He smiles widely when he sees just how _wrecked_ Steve is- head thrown back, chest heaving, a blush painting his skin from his cheeks all the way down his torso- and he feels very guilty for leaving the man like this when Steve manages to indicate the bar with the few words he’s able to string together. ‘Should’ve known Stark would be prepared like this,’ he calls as he ducks behind the bar and rummages between two bottles of scotch to produce a small tube of lube. Moments later, he returns triumphantly to hover over Steve on his hands and knees, and plants a kiss on Steve’s forehead while he opens the tube and applies a generous coating to the fingers of his metal hand.

 

Steve cradles Bucky’s face between his own hands and slips his tongue between his teeth as Bucky tentatively presses the first finger inside of him. Bucky swallows Steve’s gasp at the sensation of cold metal and has to rub the heel of his right palm against the front of his own jeans, which are far too tight at this point. As Bucky delicately works Steve open, Steve haltingly undoes the buckle of Bucky’s belt and somehow manages to push the pants down far enough for Bucky to kick them off without having to pause for too long from his ministrations. ‘’Bout goddamn time,’ grins Steve when Bucky is finally naked, and he reaches down to stroke the velvet skin of Bucky’s cock hanging between them.

 

‘Clearly,’ growls Bucky, as Steve grips his shaft and smiles sweetly up at him, ‘I’m not doing a very good job here if you’re competent enough to be doing that right now.’

 

‘Add another finger, then. I’m not made of glass,’ Steve says, continuing his slow strokes. The smug look on Steve’s face disappears abruptly when Bucky gently inserts a third finger, replaced by an expression of barely-contained ecstasy. Bucky is a little bit disappointed but mostly pleased when Steve’s hands drop from his cock to grip tightly at the fabric of the cushions. He continues his work with his metal hand, systematically reducing Steve to a quivering mess beneath him as he brushes the tips of his fingers rhythmically against Steve’s prostate.  Steve is just beginning to clench around his fingers when he pulls out, but Bucky cuts the disappointed groan short with his mouth. Wrapping his right arm around Steve’s waist and pressing their torsos together, Bucky shimmies himself up so his back is against the backrest and Steve is the one supporting his weight above Bucky. Steve looks down into Bucky’s eyes as he shifts his hips, positioning himself directly above Bucky’s aching cock. ‘I’ve placed my trust in you, Buck,’ he whispers, watching the starlight dance in Bucky’s unwavering gaze. ‘Do you trust me?’

‘To the end of the line,’ Bucky replies simply, and in another breath they are joined.

 

They move together slowly at first, without the easy familiarity of ages past, but soon they find a rhythm; Bucky thrusting gently upwards into the tight heat of Steve’s body as Steve arches backwards. Bucky peppers every square inch of Steve’s skin he can reach with kisses while Steve clings tightly to his shoulders, his fingers digging into the taut muscles of Bucky’s back. Bucky’s hands are at Steve’s hips, the tips of his metal fingers denting the skin hard enough to leave bruises that just might last until the morning. Few words are exchanged between them as their bodies undulate together, save for choked off cries of Bucky’s name when Bucky reaches between them to lightly grip Steve’s cock with his flesh hand.

 

Their tempo increases as Bucky works at Steve with his hand, names and prayers giving way to moans and gasps as Steve runs his nails over the sharp protrusions of Bucky’s angel bones. Their breath and sweat mingle together while they move and Steve knots Bucky’s hair tightly in his fist. Bucky sucks more marks into Steve’s flushed skin, leaving a trail down the side of his neck and along his collarbone. He feels Steve’s body begin to tighten around his own and runs his tongue over Steve’s nipple in encouragement. Steve comes with both of Bucky’s arms locked tightly around him, and Bucky continues to kiss his face as he shudders with the aftershocks. It’s only a few more moments of frenzied movements and Steve’s whispered encouragements in his ear before Bucky follows, his release washing over him in wave after wave of pleasure.

 

Steve is spent as he collapses into Bucky’s own limp body, pressing sloppy kisses on Bucky’s temple as Bucky releases his death-grip from Steve’s hips. Even with his newly-restored memories Bucky cannot recall ever feeling this happy; Steve is draped over him and radiating enough heat that they don’t even notice the light breeze lapping at their exposed skin. They would both be content to remain where they are, but Bucky winces slightly when Steve shifts against him to get more comfortable and Steve reluctantly gives in to his own over-stimulation, rolling off of Bucky and standing up on unsteady legs. ‘Washcloth,’ he says in response to Bucky’s questioning look, and he climbs over the cushions to step lightly on the rooftop floor.

 

‘Bless you,’ grins Bucky when Steve returns, carrying a damp washcloth from the bar. He sighs contentedly as Steve wipes the mess off his chest, and pats the spot beside him eagerly after Steve finishes cleaning up himself. Steve flops into the seat and snuggles up against Bucky’s side, planting a kiss on Bucky’s cheek while Bucky gropes blindly at the folded blankets in the wicker basket behind them. Within moments, they’re wrapped cosily in a large plaid picnic blanket, and Steve has to stifle a yawn.

 

‘How good is the security up here?’ asks Bucky, threading his metal fingers through the close-cropped hair at the back of Steve’s head.

 

‘Same as the rest of the building,’ replies Steve. ‘The forcefield surrounding the roof doesn’t just keep the wind at bay. I know Tony’s slept up here before, and he’s even more paranoid than you.’

 

‘Excellent, because I’m not too sure about my movement capabilities right now.’ Bucky gives Steve a cheeky wink and Steve huffs out a laugh.

 

As Bucky rests his ear against Steve’s chest, the steady heartbeat of his friend grounds him. He feels more in the present in this moment than he has yet since Natasha lured him in all those weeks ago, and the solidity and sturdiness he’s experiencing is something he hopes will just continue to grow with Steve’s support. _Clint was right_ , he thinks: they are, all of them, too damaged to ever be completely ‘fixed’; but, with each other to lean on when needed (and Bucky hopes that someday, the rest of Steve’s team will come to trust him enough to lean on him in turn), they can get through.

 

‘What’re you thinking about?’ mutters Steve into Bucky’s hair.

 

Bucky smiles and presses a kiss on Steve’s warm skin. ‘Just… For the first time in seventy years, I’m glad I didn’t die in Austria.’ And he can tell from the way that Steve pulls him closer that, in spite of everything, Steve agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID IT! 
> 
> Thank you to every single person who helped me with this, either with support, comments, critiques, or kudos. It means a lot to me that so many people have liked this story.
> 
> Just a couple of headcanons that I may not have made clear in the story:
> 
> \- Bucky and Steve haven't lost their Brooklyn/40s-slang completely, but at this point in the game they're both extremely well-read (especially in contemporary non-fiction, considering Steve's book collection in DC and the amount of time Bucky spent reading up on 20th century history) so their vernacular has adapted to reflect that. 
> 
> \- I pictured Tony's fire pit as being a depressed ring of cushioned benches with pillows placed randomly throughout (like a donut-shaped couch set into the floor), surrounding a gravel disk with one of those fire cauldrons in the centre, and wicker baskets filled with blankets at convenient intervals around the outside.
> 
> -This chapter is about them accepting each other for what they are now, and showing that trust. Bucky's been treated enough that he's on about the same level of mental illness as Steve by now, as opposed to the severely messed-up Bucky we saw at the beginning.
> 
> \- I'd think their respective immune systems would make condoms unnecessary? Also the fact that they've really only been with each other; Steve made it pretty clear to Natasha that he hasn't dated anyone since waking up, and I doubt that Hydra would be irresponsible enough to leave their mindless weapon with a sex drive. 
> 
> Again, thank you all, and I hope you enjoyed the conclusion. Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think in either the comments or on my tumblr, thenakedgeologist.


End file.
